Altar
by LadyDivine91
Summary: When Crowley gets bored during a dinner party at Madame Tracy's, he starts speaking to his husband telepathically, reminding him of a time way back when in Crete when the two of them put a sacrificial altar to good use ... and suggests they re-create the moment when they get home. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes:**_

_**Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'altar'. Warning for bondage, mildly public blow job, and implied frottage.**_

_'Do you remember the last time you and I were in Crete?'_

It's a whisper.

Just a whisper.

But it breaks through the buzz of the current conversation - Madame Tracy (well, Mrs. Shadwell as of an impromptu elopement around two weeks ago) regaling Anathema with tales of her travels pre-matrimony: touring the spiritual hot spots around Europe, the various full moon festivals she participated in, her visits to shamans and high priestesses and wizards.

Also her stint at a popular burlesque show in Paris, a subject that makes Newt and Mr. Shadwell mildly uncomfortable but for different reasons.

No one hears Crowley's question to Aziraphale. It slips deftly into Aziraphale's brain, placed there by his wily demon. Crowley waits for a reaction, staring at him from the opposite side of the table, over the curved rim of his wineglass and behind the cover of dark glasses.

Aziraphale shifts in his seat, wiggles his shoulders, tilts his head left and right.

He does indeed remember the last time they were both in Crete.

But now is hardly the time.

_'We shouldn't be doing this.'_

_'Doing what?'_

_'Communicating this way. We're ignoring our hosts. It's rude.'_

_'They don't care.'_

_'How do you know?'_

Crowley rolls his eyes, polishes off his wine. _'Watch this.'_ He clears his throat. "Hey! Hey, Pulsifer!"

The young man's smile, plastered on for the sake of the conversation, dips as he glances over his shoulder at the demon suddenly vying for his attention after not speaking a word to him all meal. "Yes?"

"Aziraphale and me, we're going to be talking a bit, brain to brain, so you lot can't hear. You don't mind, do you?"

"N-no." Newt looks at Crowley strangely, as if he doesn't know whether to believe him or not. Of course he's a demon and his husband is an angel. They've probably been speaking telepathically the entire time he's known them and he hasn't had a clue. "Go right ahead."

Crowley nods in gratitude. "Mighty nice of you."

"Yeah. N-no … no problem."

Shadwell's head pops up, squinting with curiosity, but when Newt returns to the conversation, so does he.

Crowley smiles smugly. _'See?'_

_'He probably doesn't believe you,' _Aziraphale responds, focusing a bit too hard on a dinner roll he's been softening in his right hand.

_'Don't matter. You didn't answer the question.'_

_'I don't think that's a good idea.'_

_'Why not?'_

_'Anathema, for one.'_

_'What about her?'_

_'She's going to hear. And possibly Mrs. Shadwell.'_

_'Block them off. It's easy as anything. Don't even require much magic. Answer the question.'_

Aziraphale shifts again, resisting the urge to cross his legs underneath the table to dull his body's reaction to that question, Crowley's voice, the intimacy of having it whisper through his brain. _'It was long ago. Longer ago than I care to own up to. But I may remember … a few key points.'_

Crowley leans forward, grin curling, his thumb working along the edge of his empty glass, in need of tactile stimulation. _'They had all of those false idols, and that giant, gaudy altar. You were there to lead them back to the light. I was there to encourage them to keep going with their blasphemy.'_

_'I recall.'_

Crowley's eyebrows lift. _'Do you recall what I did to you on that altar?'_

Another seat shift and more rigid shoulders are Aziraphale's answer.

So Crowley decides to answer for him.

Refresh his memory.

"Oh … oh, Crowley …"

Aziraphale jerks, his chair leg squeaking against the floorboards of Mrs. Shadwell's dining room. The sound elicits a few concerned glances, but Aziraphale smiles them away, bringing the roll to his lips as if casually ready to take a bite.

But he doesn't.

If he opens his mouth at all, he might moan.

His own voice in his brain startles him, definitely, but it also comes with feel.

With _touch_.

Lips on his neck, a comforting weight pressing down on his torso, hands exploring up the sensitive skin of his thighs.

And his wrists and ankles locked down in metal cuffs.

His gaze snaps in Crowley's direction, his eyes wide. He'd ask Crowley to stop, but those eyes … those gorgeous eyes …

Crowley doesn't let his eyes run away from him too often. He does his best to keep them under control, humanlike, so if any mortal did catch a glimpse of them, they'd have to look twice to see any difference.

Which they wouldn't.

If Crowley's low, seductive voice didn't bring this memory back in full force, those venomous yellow eyes, extending now from rim to rim, definitely do.

"No … I … we shouldn't be doing this …"

Aziraphale chuckles lightly in the back of his throat, closes his eyes in embarrassment at how _damsel-in-distress-from-a-cheesy-romance-novel_ that declaration sounds.

Turns out, closing his eyes? Not the wisest decision.

Because now, to go along with the voices, he can clearly see the moment playing behind his lids

_'It was a sacrificial altar,' _Crowley continues_. 'It had thick cuffs at the head and foot.' _He gulps. It upsets his whole throat._ 'All those times I spent breaking you out of chains, and here I was, putting you in them.'_

_'Not one of my smarter decisions, I will admit …'_ Aziraphale knows he should open his eyes to avoid suspicion from their human companions, but he can't - too fascinated by the scene and the fact that Crowley seems to have memorized it so completely. Aziraphale smells the dry earth, the pottery by his head, the incense burning. He feels the hard clay underneath his back, its texture against the backs of his legs and his arse. He hears Crowley's grunts pinging through his brain as he tries to collect them, record them, hide them away in his head for later review when he can replay the whole thing and yell at himself, "What were you _thinking_!?"

But mostly he feels _Crowley_ – his weight; his heat; his skin; his mouth all over, everywhere at once.

Aziraphale does cross his legs now, his knee brushing the underside of the table, and clamps his thighs together.

_'I bound you to that altar. I couldn't believe you trusted me. But I was euphoric. You were my offering. My sacrifice. Only mine. And I wanted you … so bad.'_

"Crowley," Aziraphale (in his memory) moans, less concerned than he should be when the demon starts wrapping his wrists in gold, slides the locking pins into place. "What are you … what are you doing?"

"I want you," Crowley growls into the angel's mouth. "I want you to surrender to me. I've wanted you for so long and now I'm going to have my way."

"What are you going to do?" Aziraphale asks, knowing that whatever it is, he can miracle his way out.

"I'm going to taste you …" Crowley moves down Aziraphale's body, down his chest and his soft tummy, hands caressing his curves as he travels down the angel's legs, heading towards his ankles. He stops at his hips, stares at the simple linen robe covering him. He licks his lips and puts his mouth to the spot, breathing hot over the bulge growing between Aziraphale's thighs.

Sitting at Tracy Shadwell's mahogany dining table, the red in Aziraphale's cheeks hitches up a notch as Crowley, in his head, begins lifting his robe. _'You wanted to defile an angel, you mean.'_

_'True. But I wanted you, Aziraphale. No one else.'_

_'Well, you had me, didn't you?'_

"Oh … oh my … oh my G-" Aziraphale bites the word off with teeth sunk into his lower lip. There's no way in Hell he's going to invoke Her name. Not now. Especially when She may actually show up. And he doesn't want to think of that, of Her finding him here like this. And not even, wickedly, because he's doing something wrong. Which he is. He'll admit it. But because he doesn't want this to end, what this gorgeous demon is doing to him with his mouth – kissing, sucking, _devouring _like he _needs_ this. He needs to please Aziraphale like the desert needs rain.

To live.

To thrive.

Having Crowley pleasure him this way is incredible, but the need in him? Aziraphale wants _that_.

He wants it forever.

_'I did. And it ruined me, Aziraphale. I couldn't tempt a single human with lust for close to a decade. Every time I tried, it made me think of you. But you weren't there. You were never there and I … I became useless.'_

Aziraphale's eyelids flutter open, the red in his cheeks cooling to a softer pink as the sounds of climax fade in his head.

"Oh, Crowley … Crowley …"

"Aziraphale … angel … my angel …"

Aziraphale blinks. His brow furrows.

Was that … did he really?

"_My_ angel …"

The furrows deepen.

Did Crowley say that? _Really_ say that? Or is Crowley adding it?

If not, how did Aziraphale miss that?

Whether or not that happened then, it's happening now. Aziraphale is Crowley's angel.

That's all that matters.

Aziraphale smiles. _'Maybe we could try it again?' _He glances up at his husband, who has leaned so far forward he's practically climbing onto the table, knee in the butter, to get at him.

_'How do you mean?'_

_'You have that huge table at your flat,' _Aziraphale explains. _'You have cuffs. We can re-enact the scene, minus the coarse sand and the smell of camel dung.'_

_'Sounds like fun. Or … you can do the same thing to me …'_

A new sound slips past Aziraphale's ears - the sound of Crowley crying out, calling Aziraphale's name, with a sinful desperation that revives that red flush, brings the dwindling sensations in the angel's body back to life.

A chant of "Aziraphale! Aziraphale! Please! Don't stop!" strikes his eardrums over and over as an image so vivid Aziraphale knows it's partly real flashes before his eyes: his own sinister grin; his lips, slick with saliva, sliding down the throbbing shaft of his husband's cock; that first glorious taste of pre-come tingling his tongue …

"Mr. Fell?"

"Yes!?" Aziraphale yelps and tosses his roll, squeezed nearly to the point of splitting in two, into the air. It bounces off the ceiling and ricochets back down, landing squarely on the tines of his fork, flipping it clear over his plate to somersault twice and land in the soup tureen.

The once lively conversation in the room goes dead.

Aziraphale stares down the length of the table and sees four sets of eyes staring back, blank faces accompanying them.

From across the way, he hears Crowley snicker.

"Are you all right, Aziraphale?" Tracy asks.

"Yeah," Anathema says. "You look … flushed."

"What?" Aziraphale squeaks, putting a hand to his cheek. "Yes! I'm … I'm fine! Absolutely. Maybe just … a tad warm. But that's all." He laughs nervously. "Probably all the wine," he says, gesturing to his mostly full glass.

His _only_ glass.

Tracy and Anathema share a look, one that's a smidge more sly than Aziraphale would expect from those two. But that could just be his own personal paranoia kicking in.

"O-kay," Tracy says. "We were about to move this party to the sitting room for dessert and coffee. Would you and Mr. Crowley like to join us? Or are you still … _talking_?"

"Uh …" Aziraphale peeks over at Crowley, but he simply shrugs, grinning unashamedly. "No. Yes! I mean, we'll join you. Of course. Oh …" He stands a few inches, but immediately sits back down.

"Is there something wrong?" Tracy asks.

"Yeah, Aziraphale. Is there something _wrong_?" Crowley echoes. More in the know than any of the others, he picks up a green bean and sucks it between his lips into his mouth.

"_No_." Aziraphale frowns sourly at his husband, a familiar ache thudding through his lower body when his rear meets the seat as he viciously projects an image into Crowley's head of the demon spending the night alone on the sofa. "I just need … a few minutes."


End file.
